Leaves of Grass Read Online
INTRODUCTION
Walt Whitman and the Promise of America
“America,” the voice says, decidedly.
“Centre of equal daughters, equal sons,
All, all alike endear‘d, grown, ungrown, young or old.”
There is a pause. Then, with renewed vigor and a deliberate beat:
“Strong, ample, fair, enduring, capable, rich,
Perennial with the Earth, with Freedom, Law and Love”
(from “America,” pp. 638-639).
“Listener up there!” the poet calls from the pages of Leaves of Grass. Walt Whitman listens—really listens—and responds—actually responds—to America through his poetry. The page functions as a “necessary film” between the reader and the elusive, contradictory “I” of the text, but Whitman himself often longed to dispose of this medium and confront his audience face to face. He was compelled by the powers of the human voice; Whitman might have realized early dreams of becoming an orator had he possessed a stronger tonal quality or more dramatic flair and talent. But even as a writer, he never stopped measuring the worth of words by their sound and aural appeal. “I like to read them in a palpable voice: I try my poems that way—always have: read them aloud to myself,” the aging poet told his friend Horace Traubel (With Walt Whitman in Camden, vol. 3, p. 375; see “For Further Reading”). Getting his listeners to listen to him, as he absorbed and translated them; sensing and deriving energy from the presence and participation of an audience, as his own physical self and voice inspired them: These were foremost concerns for the poet now known as America’s greatest spokesperson, a man who still speaks to and for the American people.
Thomas Edison’s recording of Whitman reading his poem “America” is the closest Walt came, in a literal sense, to addressing his audience (that is, if it is indeed authentic; see Ed Folsom’s article “The Whitman Recording”). Edison patented the phonograph in 1878, and the public flocked to see and hear demonstrations of the new device that “spoke” in a faint metallic tone. Whitman himself visited New York’s Exhibition Building to see displays of Edison’s phonograph and telephone in 1879. A great admirer of technological progress and inventive spirits, Whitman and Edison struck up a friendship and apparently decided to make a recording in 1889. The poet spoke into a small megaphone, attached to the recording apparatus with a flexible tube; the inventor turned the crank. The winding sound of the spinning wax cylinder is clearly heard for the first few seconds of the recording.
And then the voice starts. Students of Whitman are often surprised by how “old” he sounds, forgetting his many paralytic strokes in the 1870s and the ill health that plagued him in his final years. His choice of poem for this apparently onetime opportunity also seems unusual, since “America” is not a popular favorite with Whitman or his readers. But given the strong beat of the poem’s many monosyllabic words, Whitman may have chosen the reading for its sound as well as its meaning. The urgency of his voice increases as he moves from the musical cadence of the first two lines to the solemn grandeur of the next. His pronunciation of “ample” as “eam ple” sounds explosive, and the accent perhaps betrays the Dutch heritage of his family and his beloved city. And the luxurious curl in the word “love” is intimate and inviting. The sensual Whitman can still be heard—even felt—well over a hundred years after his physical death.
The sudden cut after the last word suggests that Whitman and Edison had run out of cylinder space before recording the last two lines: “A grand, sane, towering, seated Mother, / Chair’d in the adamant of Time.” The omission does not damage the poetic quality of the first four lines; in fact, fans of Whitman’s earlier, energetic descriptions may consider the final image too static, too conservative or classical. But this late poem was written by a poet reacting as much to intimations of his own mortality as to America’s growing obsession with capitalism and divisions of labor. By the time Whitman wrote “America” in 1888, he no longer believed he would see the promise of America fulfilled in his day; if true democracy were to be achieved, Americans would have to will it into existence. Whitman forcefully projects this solid, secure image of America—an America where the values of community, equality, and creation are at the center rather than the margins—in defiance of the divisive, material culture he first recognized after the Civil War. In both the recorded four and the original six lines of the poem, Whitman’s last word on America is love.
Whitman might be disappointed by how removed America still is from his idealized vision, but he would have been pleasantly surprised by the relevance and impact of his message today—especially to his fellow New Yorkers. Though the printshop where Leaves of Grass was first struck off was unceremoniously demolished in the 1960s to make way for a housing project, the city has since confirmed and created symbols of the enduring presence of the poems: “Crossing Brooklyn Ferry,” hammered into the Fulton Ferry landing balustrade in Brooklyn, underscores one of the most dramatic Manhattan views; an inspiring section of “City of Ships!” faces the World Financial Center from the marina’s iron enclosure; other verse cruises the length of the city below ground, as part of the “Poetry in Motion” series exhibited on the subway.
The events of September 11, 2001, affected every American’s sense of security and allegiance but brought New Yorkers together in a particularly powerful way. With a renewed sense of connection among this diverse group of people, and support for its heroes and survivors, came a turn to their first spokesperson. Even a century and a half later, Whitman’s images of American courage are strikingly modern. As more firehouse walls and church walls became temporary memorial sites, more of Leaves of Grass became part daily life in New York City.
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